"The minute things start going his way, he'll drop the covert and it'll become a liberation army," Stephens said.

"Michael Hoare didn't have anything like five hundred mercenaries-"

"Who?" Oliver interrupted.

"The South African Kasavubu hired to put down the Simba rebellion when his army couldn't do it," Jack said. "I don't think he had two hundred people, and very few of those could be called 'well-trained troops.' He recruited most of them in waterfront bars in Belgium and France."

"But they did take the Congo back, didn't they?" Stephens said. "Lesson to be learned: You guys better stop Guevara before he gets very far."

The elevator stopped with a lurch. Stephens slid the folding door open and waved them out. He punched a button on the control panel, then closed the door. The elevator began to descend.

Stephens led them across a tiled floor to a door and opened it.

The rooms were large and high-ceilinged, European. The obviously American furniture didn't seem appropriate, and Jack idly wondered why the embassy hadn't bought furniture locally.

They were still wandering around the apartment when de la Santiago and the others came in.

"The other apartment," Stephens said, now in English, "give or take, is identical to this one." He looked at Zammoro. "You're going to use one of them as a safe house, I take it?"

"Thank you for speaking English," Jack said.

"I was checking their Spanish," Stephens said.

"And?" Oliver asked.

"If they work on the accent, the different words, Zammoro and de la Santiago could maybe maybe pass for Argentines, Chileans, or Uruguayans. Otmanio, no way. He's got a really strange accent." pass for Argentines, Chileans, or Uruguayans. Otmanio, no way. He's got a really strange accent."

"Spanish Harlem Spanish, mixed with Puerto Rican," Otmanio said.

"He's also going to attract attention because of his black skin," Stephens said. "There aren't many really black people in Argentina. My advice is keep your mouth shut."

Otmanio nodded.

"You're going back when?" Stephens asked.

"Tomorrow morning, we're going to fly to Cordoba. We should be back here by dark, and then Jack and I are on the 2315 Aerolineas flight to Miami," Oliver said.

"Cordoba, or Alta Gracia?" Stephens said.

"Alta Gracia," Oliver said.

"Whose idea is that?"

"Actually, it was a pointed suggestion from Colonel Felter," Oliver said.

"It's probably a good idea, but don't expect to see much," Stephens said. "I've taken that tour myself. You're going to have a guide, I hope?"

"Oh, sure."

"I presume the apartments meet your approval?" Stephens asked.

"They're very nice," Zammoro said.

"And convenient, too," Stephens said. "You can probably have lunch with your old buddy a lot."

"Excuse me?"

"Your old pal's office is at Leandro Alem, 26. That's just a couple of blocks from here."

"What's that?" Oliver said.

"Large office building," Stephens said. "Lots of people-in and out of uniform-standing around just inside the door and on the loading dock holding submachine guns. There's a rumor going around it's SIDE's secret headquarters."

Jack chuckled.

"I'll send a car to the transient quarters at nine," Stephens said. "Give my regards to Miami."

He tossed a large stack of keys to Zammoro and walked out of the apartment.

XVI.

[ ONE ].

Cordoba Cordoba Province, Argentina 0955 6 February 1965 "Cordoba," Lieutenant Colonel Guillermo Rangio announced, "is the second largest city in Argentina, and the capital of Cordoba province. It is also the site of our aircraft factory, another expensive legacy of General Peron. Everybody knows and admits that it would be cheaper and more efficient to buy all our military aircraft from you Americans, or the British, than to try to make them ourselves, but if we did that, it would put a lot of people out of work here. And, another legacy of the general, the unions here are second in power only to the military, so the politicians throw our money away on our aircraft factory."

Everyone in the L-23 smiled.

He was sitting in the copilot's seat beside de la Santiago, wearing, like the others, a green coverall garment officially described as a "US Army Suit, Flight, Summer."

"There it is," he said, pointing out the window. "When we land, we will be directed to a hangar. With a little bit of luck, no journalist will see us land."

"Would that be a problem, Colonel?" Oliver asked.

"It would be all over the front page of CLARIN- CLARIN-which is our New York Daily News- New York Daily News-tomorrow that Yankee spies were down here brazenly stealing Argentine technology while SIDE did nothing about it."

De la Santiago reached for the microphone and requested approach and landing instructions.

They were met at the end of the runway by a follow-me pickup truck, which led them to a hangar whose doors were wide open. De la Santiago shut off the engines and a dozen ground crewmen pushed the airplane into the hangar and turned it around. The hangar doors closed.

Jack Portet, who had ridden in the rearmost seat, opened the door and got out of the airplane. Two men in uniform approached.

"Good morning," Jack said.

Both replied in English.

"Good morning," one said.

"Welcome to Cordoba," the other said.

Otmanio got out next, followed by Oliver, then Rangio, Zammoro, and finally de la Santiago.

The two officers saluted Rangio, then embraced him.

Rangio put his arm around Zammoro.

"This is my dear friend Julio Zammoro," he said in English. "Formerly Major in the Cuban Army, and now an officer of the United States Army. My wife wept when she learned Castro has her friend Senora Zammoro on the Isla de Pinos."

Both officers saluted Zammoro, and then, shaking their heads in what could have been compassion or outrage, and was probably both, shook his hand.

Rangio motioned de la Santiago over to him.

"This is Enrico de la Santiago," he said, "formerly Captain of the Cuban Air Force, now also a U.S. Army officer. Dr. Guevara personally murdered his grandfather with Enrico's grandmother and mother watching."

Both officers saluted de la Santiago, and again shook their heads as they shook his hand.

"And this is Sergeant First Class Otmanio," Rangio said. Otmanio saluted. "He is in the United States Special Forces, as are these gentlemen, Captain Oliver and Lieutenant Portet."

Salutes and handshakes were again exchanged.

"They are all here at the request of General Pistarini," Rangio went on. "To help us with a certain problem. Since you know we are going to Alta Gracia, I don't think I have to put a name on the problem, nor point out the importance of discretion vis-a-vis their presence here."

"No, sir," the two said, almost in unison.

"The ugly one, gentlemen," Rangio said, "is my deputy for this area, Major Ricardo Javez. And the other, really ugly one, Colonel Paolo Lamm, heads the Policia Federal in Cordoba Province. He is my wife's cousin."

Hands were shaken all around again.

"The cars are ready? And luncheon is arranged for?" Rangio asked.

"Yes, sir," the two said, again almost in unison.

"Well, then, gentlemen," Rangio said. "I suggest we get on with the tour."

He started taking off his flight suit, and the others followed. Under them, they were in civilian clothing. They tossed the flight suits into the L-23.

Three cars were waiting outside the hangar, a 1963 Buick and two 1962 Chevrolets. Rangio got behind the wheel of one of the Chevrolets and motioned Zammoro and Oliver to get in with him. Major Javez got behind the wheel of the second Chevrolet, and Jack, de la Santiago, and Otmanio got in with him. Colonel Lamm got in the Buick alone and, leading the little convoy, drove off.

There were signs all along the two-lane highway, posting a 110-km (about 70-mph) speed limit, and there were two gendarmerie posts along the thirty-mile road to Alta Gracia. The speed limits were ignored, and the little convoy sailed past the gendarmerie so fast the gendarmes barely had time to recognize the Policia Federal chief's Buick and salute.

They came to Alta Gracia, a town of about 30,000 people, and drove through its streets until they came to a residential area. The right turn signal on Colonel Lamm's Buick flashed. The two Chevrolets pulled to the curb and stopped. The Buick continued on.

Rangio got out of the his car and walked to the car behind him.

"The house directly across from here is where Dr. Guevara spent his childhood and early manhood," he said, indicating a small, well-cared-for house with a covered verandah behind a fence. "His parents still live in that house. From here, we will go to his parish elementary school, San Tomas Aquinas; and to his secondary school, San Pedro y San Paolo; and the football field where he tried to play football. He had asthma, which made it difficult for him, but he tried. He went from here to Buenos Aires, where he attended the university-which I have already shown you-and earned the degree of doctor of medicine."

A man came out of the house to the right of the Guevara de la Serna residence, and stood by the door and watched them.

Rangio got back in his car, gave them two minutes to study the house, and then drove off on the tour he had promised. They went into both schools, and into both churches. In the parish church of Saint Thomas Aquinas, Rangio led them down the aisle to the altar.

"Dr. Guevara was an altar boy here," he said. "What he has become very much distresses the priests and the good sisters, and they have no excuse for it."

There were high-school-aged boys playing soccer on the soccer field, and they watched the game in silence for several minutes before Rangio walked wordlessly back to his car and they drove off, back to Cordoba. Jack wondered what had happened to Colonel Lamm in the Buick, and decided that Lamm had felt his duties were over once he had shown them Guevara's home.

They drove up to the Hotel Crillon in Cordoba and went inside.

They were shown to a private dining room off the main dining room. Colonel Lamm was already there, and so was the man who had come onto the porch of the house next to Guevara's.

Rangio pointed to a table laden with wine bottles.

"I understand that Enrico will be flying," Rangio said, nodding at de la Santiago, "so he gets no wine. But for the rest of us . . . Unless someone would prefer whiskey?"

A waiter pulled a cork and poured a sample for Rangio's approval. He sipped it, nodded his approval, and the waiter began to fill glasses.

"The wine is from Cordoba Province," Rangio said. "We like to think our Argentine wine is as good as any."

He waited until everyone had a glass, then raised his glass to the man who had come out on his porch to watch them.

"I would like to thank Senor Manuelo Frotzi for joining us," he said. "I happen to personally know that he is both a good Catholic and a patriot. He is in the difficult position of liking Ernesto Guevara de la Serna, who he watched grow up as the friend of his son Reynaldo, who is now a captain in the 1st Regiment of Grenadiers, stationed in Buenos Aires. I will arrange for Zammoro, de la Santiago, and Otmanio to meet with Capitan Frotzi in the next few days."

Senor Frotzi smiled uneasily at them.

"Unfortunately, Senor Frotzi doesn't speak English very fluently, " Rangio went on, "but Colonel Lamm has explained to him who you are and what you are doing here, and thought he might be of some service to you."

Everybody shook Frotzi's hand.

Jack wondered if Frotzi really wanted to be helpful, or whether it was an invitation he couldn't refuse.

Over lunch, it quickly became apparent that Rangio's description of him was accurate. Frotzi was torn between his affection for Guevara, whom he had obviously looked upon as sort of another son, and at least embarrassment, and possibly shame, that "his" nice young man had turned into a communist revolutionary.

The picture Frotzi painted-his English was much better than Rangio had suggested; only an occasional translation was necessary-was that Che Guevara had had a perfectly normal childhood, marred only by the restrictions his asthma imposed on his athletics. There had been no indication, even, of leftist leanings, although his father and mother had supported the socialist-like programs of Juan Peron.

In the last serious talk he had had with him, Frotzi related, when Guevara was nearing the end of his medical education, he had candidly told him that he intended to stay in Buenos Aires, because doctors in the country had a hard time making a living, much less a lot of money.

The luncheon meeting lasted over two hours, and the array of wine bottles had just about been depleted when Rangio ended it.

"The norteamericano officers are flying home tonight; we're going to have to start back to Buenos Aires." He looked around the table. "Any last questions?"

No one replied.

"Sergeant Otmanio, you haven't said very much," Rangio said. "No questions?"

"Colonel," Otmanio said, just a little thickly. "I been sitting here trying to figure this clown out."